half in the shadows
by wewerethebestrichard
Summary: "He lets the voices wash over him, a peaceful island of sound in the white blur of New York City. For now, they are all marooned together with a bleeding Christ and a few dozen hymn books, and that is the way it should be." Matt/Claire and Matt/being very Catholic


Snow makes everything a little quieter.

It muffles footsteps, hushes voices, and while the cold clarity of the air does aid hearing, it's a spatial nightmare. Everything's so still and uniform - peaceful, but also blinding.

Add snowflakes in the air and top that off with next-to-nothing traffic, and Matt's nearly reduced to normality. Thankfully, he's only a block away from the church when it actually starts to snow, and he finds his way, cane sweeping through the thick icing on the sidewalk.

It's December 25th, and he's right on time for morning service.

That's the way he likes it. He doesn't want to miss too much of the mass, but if he's early, he has to confront the chattering throng of people that want to shake his hand. He knows the congregation is his family, full of struggle, and that the holy people filling the pews are at constant war with themselves the same way he is. But it doesn't stop him from feeling like he doesn't belong. It's just an occupational hazard.

He shakes the snow out of his hair and settles in an unassuming seat near the back, takes off his glasses and closes his eyes. They're starting a psalm and he lets the voices wash over him, a peaceful island of sound in the white blur of New York City. For now, they are all marooned together with a bleeding Christ and a few dozen hymn books, and that is the way it should be.

It would be impossible for Matt to explain to Foggy or Karen the quiet of a church. He's not even a devout Catholic by many standards, but the air, it gets in your lungs, and it doesn't matter what rules you choose to follow if you can feel the light filtering through the stained glass the way Matt does. That's what it is to be religious - follow some rules and let the rest haunt you. Understand the heavy significance of your rosary deep down, and then keep it tucked away in a drawer in denial. It's life. It is, in its own way, a very peaceful thing if you come to terms with it.

The bench creaks as Matt shifts his position. They're starting another psalm, a somewhat more joyful and well-known one. Some voices join the chorus that had been hesitant or absent before, and he listens. There's a broken bass he follows for a minute, a trembling soprano, and a contralto that makes him catch his breath…

God damn it ( _I know, on Christmas too, one of these days I'll break that habit…_ ), that contralto here. Where is she? He concentrates, mind skipping off the meditation and onto a track of pointless anxiety. She's seven rows ahead, hair done up, standing alone. He grips and un-grips his cane nervously, and then decides to forget about it in favour of the worship. He needs a good day, he deserves a time to relax, even if he couldn't leave the city with Foggy for fear of unchecked crime surely he can have one morning to lose himself in something other than violence. He doesn't have to think about her.

He manages a few minutes concentrating hard on the words of the proceeding carol, but he can hear her voice through the crowd too easily and his thoughts wander to his side, where the massive cut he kept opening has finally faded. He hasn't needed her for a while, and chose to nurse himself when he incurred semi-serious wounds, because he had no way of knowing if she was back in New York, and didn't want to call her up for anything not potentially fatal. He'd actually gone to a hospital for some broken fingers a few months ago, figuring that was a run-of-the-mill injury and -

He shakes himself slightly and refocusses on the hymns. God came down to be with us, and there is a whole day for us to all rest in that truth, and we do not have to think about our exes, even if they've wound up at our church by some wild chance.

The sermon is good enough to slow down his heartrate, and he returns to the calm of the day with only a little difficulty. When the blessing is being said, he resolves to leave it up to her - he won't draw attention to himself and she probably won't notice him.

She does.

He hears her coming closer, then pausing at the end of his bench, then - then passing on.

Right, it's alright. He unfolds his glasses and puts them on, but doesn't move to get up, and the people stream down the centre and sides of the church towards the courtyard. It's still snowing thickly, flakes like feathers piling up on the roof.

"Hey, Matt."

"C-Claire! You, ah, I didn't know you were…"

"Yeah, I'm not exactly a regular. But it's Christmas, so. Do you come here every week?"

"Something like that. I… don't always make the Sunday mornings but I … always end up here anyway." He offers her a small smile. "Do you want to sit down?"

"Oh -" she hesitates. "I was just going."

"Right." He smiles again. "Well, how have you been, anyway?"

"Good. I've been good. It was nice to catch a break - from work, I mean."

"Ah."

"I'm not going to pretend I didn't miss the city, though. I began to think it was all ugly and exhausting but now I keep counting down the days til I'm back on shift at the hospital."

"Well, I'm glad you're in town again. It's nice to know you're here. Not - not because I need - well, I mean, I've been taking care of myself, but -" He stutters to a halt, shrugging in good-natured apology. "It's just good to know you're out there."

"Hmm," she smiles. "How's your work going?"

"It's good. Enough upstanding clients to keep the lights on, which is what counts."

"And what about your other work? Are you going out tonight?"

"Are you asking?" He jokes, then continues hurriedly without bothering to figure out the expression on her face. "I've been busy, but I can't do anything today if it keeps snowing like this. I can't sense a thing with it blowing everywhere."

There's a pause. "Need someone to walk you home?"

"That's very kind of you, Claire." Matt doesn't get up, just sits facing forward, glasses rendering his face inscrutable. "… Are you in a hurry?" He asks.

"Well, no? Why?"

"I like being here."

"Oh - alright, then." Claire sits down, leaving a few feet of space between them, and looks up at the carving of Christ on the cross in front of them.

Another pause, much longer this time, long enough that the church clears and their breathing becomes the loudest thing in the building. The snow keeps on falling. Matt hears the last parishioners shuffle out of the churchyard, he hears some pigeons land on the roof in a gentle flurry, hears passersby on the street calling Christmas blessings to one another.

"You know," he says, clearing his throat vaguely, "I've always been thankful that I see God no less than the average person. It's always seemed kind to me that he wouldn't really show his face until we could all see it."

"What are you thinking about?" Claire asks softly.

"How I don't deserve him." There's a catch in Matt's voice. He lifts his face towards the cross, almost like he's looking at it.

"Huh. Seems to me that a God we deserved wouldn't be worth worshipping in the first place."

"I - I really thought you weren't that religious, Claire."

"I'm not. I just don't like watching people cry."

He nods.

"C'mon," she says, "Let's get you home. You don't have to be in a church to not-see God. God's always around to not be looked at, for everyone."

"Thank you."

As they walk out, he takes her arm.


End file.
